Page 64 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

“You don't?”

She shakes her head. “No. Your food and concepts and styles are so different, you're either going to attract completely different customers or the same customer when they're looking for different things. Think about Manhattan. How many restaurants are there on a single block?”

“Dozens.”

“Exactly. And yet, many of them thrive.”

“There are a lot more people in Manhattan than Bushwick.”

“That's true. But other than Jameson, you don't have much competition, do you?”

“Not in this immediate area of town. It’s why I picked it, besides the beautiful building. There aren’t any sit-down restaurants within at least ten blocks.”

“Exactly. Stop second-guessing yourself or letting Jameson Fury get under your skin.” She holds up a hand to stop my protest even though it’s true. “Believe me, I know that's hard. The man seems to have it nailed down as a science. But all you can do is concentrate on you. Make this the best restaurant you can. Stop worrying about him. Move on. I don't care how good the dick was. It's not worth getting hung up on him.”

“That's easy for you to say.”

She shakes her head and laughs. “No, it isn't. I have been in your shoes with Grant. That man can frustrate me quicker and more than anyone else on this planet.”

“Yeah but…you married him.”

“I did…because all the frustration he brings out in me is nothing compared to how much he loves me. But if Jameson isn't ready to give you that—and it sure as hell sounds like he isn't—then move on, leave him in the rearview. Put all your energy and effort into this place.” She waves her hand around. “Think of it like some one-time stress relief you got out of your system.”

Out of my system.

It would be so much easier if that were true.

As it stands, I know I'm going to spend the rest of the day wondering what’s going on next door and maybe even fantasizing about our little escapade every time I set foot in the kitchen.

So. Damn. Frustrating.

I walk Sylvie to the door and offer her a hug before she makes her way out.

Don’t look over there. Don’t look over there.

Forcing my eyes to watch Sylvie’s car drive away instead of looking at Jameson’s open door is agonizing. I hate tension, and it seems like there’s more between us now than there was when we hated each other.

But I make myself step back inside and take a long, slow, deep breath. Being alone in here feels odd, especially knowing that very soon, the staff will be here every day, helping me set up things and preparing for the opening.

I can almost picture everyone bustling around and serving all the happy customers, assuming Jameson doesn't poach them. And I wouldn’t put it past the man. Not only is it his MO, but there was something in his eyes the other night at dinner. I still can’t wrap my head around how he touched me and kissed my neck in the kitchen only to make it clear shortly thereafter that what I feared was true—it was just a fuck to him.

No more.

Maybe that’s all he wanted in his kitchen, too. A quickie while his family waited out in the restaurant. The rush of knowing we could get caught.

Regardless of his motives, he has now made his intent clear, and Sylvie is right. I need to concentrate on me and my space, not Jameson and his.

I wander back to the kitchen and get to work on finalizing the menu.

This is it. Final inspection is scheduled. Staff is hired. Décor is complete. I release a heavy breath as tears well in my eyes.

Grams, I wish you were here with me right now.

She would be so proud of me. Of course, she would also tell me that I'm working myself into the grave, but I have to do it. I have to push myself—even if my body is on the brink of breaking down. Because if I don't do it now, it may never happen. This might be my only chance to have my dream, and I can’t let that go for anything or anyone.

I lean over the counter almost exactly where Jameson had me bent over it and work on handwriting the menu to bring to the printer tomorrow.

Something is missing.

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